Reach
by Draconian Scribe
Summary: She was never far from his thoughts, yet always near enough to prevent him from voicing them. He had no words, no courage, and no understanding of how to breach the walls between them. Someday, he vowed, he would find a way to reach her. DM/HG. A/R.
1. Act I

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

**WARNINGS: Drug/alcohol abuse, explicit sexual situations, mild violence, self-mutilation, strong profanity, and torture.**

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><p>ACT I<p>

_~MARCH 1998~_

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><p>He didn't know what overcame him. He only knew that he had one chance, and one chance only, to make things right. So this time, he took it.<p>

And despite what it may have looked like, he didn't do it out of bravery, some suppressed sense of nobility, or any other sodding thing like that. No, he did it for selfish reasons, because he wanted _her, _and he didn't know any other way.

He'd crept closer and closer, waiting for the right moment to strike. He'd forced himself to watch with cold, stone-grey eyes, as she'd lain crumpled at the feet of his mad aunt, who certainly harboured no qualms about defiling such a pure and innocent creature. Deep within, her screams of anguish echoed through the darkness that had taken hold of his mind, curdling his blood, even as hers trickled down from the condemning barbs etched upon her skin. The angry, scarlet letters mocked and tormented him, weeping bitterly upon a rug long soiled with the sins of the father. Letters that he might as well have carved into her himself.

_Mudblood…_

_Mudblood…_

_MUDBLOOD…_

It had all happened so quickly. The instant that Aunt Bella had raised her wand to deliver the finishing blow, he'd disarmed her, caught the wooden rod, and dove to the floor, shielding Hermione's body with his own. Faintly, he'd registered his aunt's screech of betrayal, his father's bellow of outrage, and his mother's horrified gasp as her wand clattered onto the ground. Overhead, the chandelier came crashing down. Shards of glass rained down from the sky, shattering upon impact and slicing into his skin. Struggling through the crystalline hailstorm and the trails of blood slithering down his face, he hurriedly jammed his aunt's wand into the pocket of Hermione's jeans. Seconds too late, Potter and Weasley burst into the room, misinterpreted his actions, and sent his own wand flying into the chaos.

In a final act of desperation, he clung to Hermione's limp form and lunged for his mother's wand. The bones in his right arm creaked and strained as he frantically stretched them towards that infernal twig, mere centimetres beyond his reach, and leisurely rolling further and further away. He could feel Hermione slipping from his grasp. He could hear Potter's shouts and Weasley's footsteps as the meddling oaf thundered closer and closer. _No! NO! Not this time!_

He squeezed his eyes shut and threw himself forward, uncaring of the consequences. As soon as he felt that familiar brush of wood against the tips of his fingers, he thrust his arm past breaking point and snatched up his only hope for salvation, Disapparating with a resounding _crack_ of finality.

At long last, he opened his eyes. He shuddered with relief at the sight of the dense trees that sheltered them. They'd made it.

Their true destination laid about half an hour's walk away—the only place now that could offer them safety. He couldn't Apparate them there directly, since he didn't have access through the wards, but they should head out soon, before they ran into any Snatchers. He shifted beneath Hermione's unconscious body, which had haphazardly flung itself upon him as a result of the rushed Disapparation. He groaned, his every muscle battered and stabbing, unable to pry her deadweight off of him. One muscle in particular ached more than its brethren, and he mentally smacked himself upside the head for harbouring such notions at a time like this.

Worriedly, he glanced down at her. Her body had begun to go into shock. She trembled, clinging to him. Her eyelids twitched and she whimpered, her breathing erratic and strained. In the short time that she'd lived upon this desecrated and godforsaken earth, she'd already endured so much suffering. Just like him.

No, not like him. If he had to speak the truth, he, and many others like him, bore complete and total responsibility for all of the pain that she'd undergone since her initiation into this world. A world that constantly reminded her that she didn't belong—that she didn't deserve to _live._ But she did. More than all of them combined. She had bravery. She had strength. She had something worth fighting for. And he… He had none of that. He only had guilt, remorse, and regret—for everything that had happened between them, and everything that never did.

Taking care not to jostle her, he readjusted himself into a more comfortable seating position upon the dank earth and held her close. He encircled her with his arms, creating a cocoon of security and trying his best to soothe her shaking. He'd never attempted to console anyone before. He had no idea what to do next, and each tremor that wracked her small frame scattered his rationality into the dust. He felt frantic. Terrified. Helpless. The chilling convulsions threatened to rip her apart, but he held onto her tightly, giving her what little strength he had and saving none for himself. He had nothing else to offer, yet he asked for so much in return.

His ears still rang from her screams, and his nerves still rattled with the crippling uselessness he'd felt, cowering behind his aunt and acting as if he didn't care, as if the last, remaining fragments of his soul hadn't hopelessly, irrevocably enslaved themselves to the woman he now held in his arms. He felt incredibly pathetic, not to mention awkward, just sitting on the ground and coddling her. But he didn't want to let her go. Ever again.

_Hermione! Hermione, _he silently pleaded. _Come back to me._

Desperately, he shut his eyes in prayer to any entity that would save her and kissed her softly upon the cheek with an agonising tenderness that throbbed through his chest, like it had so many times before. Before everything went wrong.

She stilled instantly. Draco watched with a mixture of trepidation and relief as her breathing gradually returned to a steady, normal pace, hardly daring to believe it. All of the pain that had ravaged her lovely face, just moments before, had begun to smooth away. She lay slack and serene in his arms, as if she merely slept, and the scene afflicted him with a twinge of nostalgia so powerful and intoxicating, he'd brushed aside one of her wild curls, leaned down, and alighted his lips upon hers before he'd even realised what he'd done.

With an unexpected shove, he found himself sprawled upon the forest floor, the air punched straight out of his lungs, and skewered upon the sharp end of Hermione Granger's piercing glare.

"Draco Malfoy," she spat, every syllable saturated with scorn. "Once again, you fail to astound me." Furiously, she wiped her mouth off with the back of her hand, disgust evident in every crease upon her grimacing face.

Fuck. He'd almost forgotten how coldly Hermione could treat people she _didn't _like. Hell, if she wanted to revert back to pre-armistice hostilities, then so would he.

He immediately leapt to his feet and stormed towards her, towering with rage. "I just saved your arse, you ungrateful bitch," he snarled. "But that's not good enough for you, is it? Nothing's _ever _good enough for you! Well, not everyone can be so fucking _perfect—"_

"HA, _saving _me? Is _that_ what you were doing? Funny, it looked a lot more like _molesting _on my end! The felonies just keep piling up, don't they, you spineless snake—"

"Believe me, I've already moved on to _bigger_ and _better_ things," he sneered, punctuating each insinuation with a lingering leer of disdain, specifically directed towards her bust and her lower body. "Did you honestly think that I was going to mope about, waiting for you? Fucking hell, if you wouldn't let me get into your knickers, I had to find a bint who would!"

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, he fancied glimpsing a shimmer of betrayal in the earthen hues. And yet, the spiteful words continued to spill out of him, like blood pouring from an open wound—briny, relentless, and eager to stain.

"And _blimey, _was Pansy a _fantastic_ fuck! At least with her, I didn't have to worry about any Mudblood diseases—"

She slapped him then, her entire body shaking with indignation. The hateful impact resonated through the emptiness. "You _disgust_ me," she hissed, the scandalised rouge that stained her cheeks as flagrant as the mark she'd left upon his. "What in Godric's name is _wrong _with you? I've just been _tortured _to less than three centimetres of my _life!"_

"Well, thanks to me, you still _have _one!" he bellowed.

"Since when do _you_ care?" she shrieked back.

"Why don't you use that big brain of yours and FIGURE IT OUT?"

"I stopped _trying _when YOU LEFT ME!"

"Why don't I just do you a favour and lay out every last, piddling detail for you? You like details, don't you? You like having every fucking thing planned out and mapped, like it's some sodding _book! _Well, swot up on _this,_ you prig! I saw an opportunity, and I took it! I want out of this shite, and when this is all over, I'm asking for penance! So until then, you can either agree to be my witness for the defence and shut it, or you can be my hostage and I'll _make _you shut it!"

"I'm not your bloody _anything, _you _sick _bastard!"

"Cottoned on, have you? Honestly, what did you _think_ this was? Some heroic rescue attempt? That I've had a change of heart?" he mocked, the truth permeating his tongue with an ironic bitterness that she would never see, and would never know.

Instead of responding with the usual sure-fire retort, she merely studied his mask with a deceptively impassive expression of her own, searching, searching—endlessly searching for something she would never find. "I gave up hope on that a long time ago," she quietly concluded. And with that, she turned away.

No matter how many times this exact same scene had played out before him, again and again, throughout the course of the brief, yet tumultuous days they had spent together, each time felt like the first. Her, storming off—upset, confused, and completely oblivious to the truth. Him, rooted to the spot, immobilised with a sense of loss so staggering and profound, it sapped away his will to run after her. Words so compelling, and yet so condemning, they strangled and silenced him, gradually fading away and dying… dying… one brittle, broken piece at a time.

He didn't mean it. He never meant any of it. But that had never stopped him from hurting her anyway. He despised the acrid, gutless slanders that spewed out of him during their rows. Somehow, when it came to her, he always knew exactly the wrong thing to say. She had no idea how much power she had over him, and a twisted, sadistic part of him needed to know that he affected her the same way—that she felt the same agony, the same despair, and the same undying desperation that he felt every time he looked at her. If she could still cry, she could still care. And although he hated himself for his cruelty, his selfishness, and his utter lack of courage, he'd never had the fortitude to deny himself the deepest, darkest desires that lurked within the human heart. If only he did, he would never have allowed any of this to happen in the first place.

He would never have kissed Hermione. He would never have seduced Pansy in that repulsive Muggle hotel after he'd given up hope of ever seeing Hermione again. Even if he did, she would never let him touch her now. It had taken him ages to resign himself to the bleak reality that awaited him. Driven mad with longing for the girl that he _really_ loved, he'd convinced himself that if he really loved her, he would let her go.

So he'd told Pansy anything she wanted to hear, and gave her anything and everything she asked of him, just to get her to go up to that room with him. Like a coward, he'd smothered her cries with his hand and shut his eyes the entire time. Otherwise, it would have made it all too real, and he knew that he wouldn't have had the mettle to go through with it. When his orgasm had finally hit its peak, his torn soul had betrayed him and called out for its true mate.

He'd muttered a hasty contraception spell and left his bewildered conquest immediately afterwards, barricading himself in the loo. Bending over the sink, he succumbed to the bouts of nausea clawing through his system. Then, he'd collapsed upon the cold, hard tiles, weeping silently. He'd just had sex, for the first time ever in his wretched life, and he hadn't done it with the woman he loved. Instead, he'd callously taken the virginity of his childhood friend.

He didn't even know if she'd climaxed or not. In all honesty, he hadn't really cared. He'd used her, lied to her, and fucked her with mindless brutality, even as he'd fantasised about another woman. He hadn't shared that special moment with Hermione. He'd only succeeded in tainting himself further. In essence, he'd done the same thing that he'd always suspected Hermione had done with him—every time she'd kissed him, her thoughts had laid elsewhere. He'd sensed it all along, yet breathed not a word of his turmoil. At the very least, living a lie _with_ her destroyed him much more slowly than facing a reality _without_ her. Loving her had left his pride permanently crippled and bloated with sin.

Lust.

Greed.

Envy.

She, and she alone, would forever remain pure, and out of his reach.

Yes, he'd ruined them. He'd understood that long before today. He no longer had any right to remain by her side, if he ever did, yet an indecent and unspeakable compulsion continued to plague him. He scowled at Hermione's back, following her into the wilderness. What did she expect him to say? That he loved her? That he thought her the most beautiful witch he'd ever laid eyes on? That he no longer had the strength to live without her? Why bother, when he knew that she would never love him back? Why bother, when it would only result in mockery and rejection? Why couldn't she just _understand?_

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he demanded.

She didn't answer. She simply turned her nose up and trudged on.

_"HEY! _HERMIONE! I ASKED YOU A FUCKING QUESTION—"

She halted abruptly in her tracks, whipping around and snapping, _"Don't_—you—DARE!" Her hand shook with barely repressed rage, pointing the very same wand that had tortured her, just moments before, straight between his eyes. Her voice wavered, but held firm, and her eyes burned with unshed tears—tears that she perpetually refused to shed for him. "You have no right—_no right_—to call me that! _Not anymore! _You made your choice the day you went up that tower and let all of your _friends _in! It's 'Granger' or 'Mudblood' to you, _Malfoy, _and _don't you forget it!"_

He'd already plastered the usual mask of haughty indifference across his face, but inside… Inside, his heart screamed itself hoarse, trapped within and beating furiously against its confines. But he held it in. He always held it in, allowing its cries to reverberate through the hollow hole that had ripped open inside him. It swallowed all of his bitterness and all of his passion, giving each and every emotion a place to rot and shrivel into nothingness. It didn't matter now. None of them would ever see the light.

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><p>To his utter disbelief, Hermione had actually responded quite civilly when he'd finally gritted his teeth and addressed her by her surname. As they made their way through the forest and discussed tactics in stiff, detached tones, he had to constantly remind himself not to slip up. He didn't want to risk angering her again when survival depended upon their ability to cooperate. Funny, how things changed.<p>

A year ago, he would've leapt at the opportunity to rile her up. Blazing rows over the most harmless, nonsensical shite made them both horny as fuck. But now, Hermione had made it glaringly obvious that she no longer saw him as Draco, the boy she had snogged in abandoned corridors and confessed all of her insecurities to, but Malfoy, the son of Lucius Malfoy, the sneering cretin that had called her "Mudblood," and a servant of the Dark Lord. And to think, once upon a time, it would have physically pained him to address her by her _first_ name.

It felt the same way now. Although the taste of her skin still tingled upon his lips, the syllables wrenched out of them sounded strange and forced, almost foreign on his tongue. This time, he didn't feel that rush of excitement that came with committing a taboo. This time, the words crushed him, each utterance a wall slamming down between them—a reminder of what he had done, what he had lost, and what he should never have deluded himself into thinking he could have in the first place.

She refused to walk side-by-side with him. If he got too close, she either sniffed in disdain and forged on ahead, or dropped back with wary, narrowed eyes and let him take the lead. He did the only thing he could—sever his emotions and close off yet another serrated sliver of his mind. Apparently, he had a talent for it.

"So, Malfoy," Hermione spoke up from behind him, the words rank with exaggerated cordiality, "Remind me again—where _exactly _are you taking me? Of course, assuming that you actually _do _know where you are going, and that I will actually be accompanying you there willingly."

"Why, I'm so glad you asked, Granger," he airily responded without breaking stride. "We'll be staying with an acquaintance of mine. I have her word that she won't be turning us in. Her family supports the Dark Lord in theory, as is expected of every pure-blood family of their social standing, but is otherwise unaffiliated with their practices."

"I see. You're referring to Pansy, I take it?" she inquired, her voice remarkably devoid of any and all inflections that might have suggested anything other than an innocent question.

He paused, sorely tempted to turn back around and witness her expression when she'd said those words. But he couldn't do it. Because he knew he would read too much into it. He didn't dare to hope that he would find anything beyond impassivity and revulsion. And truthfully, he didn't know how many more pieces he could break into before he couldn't bind himself back together again.

"No," he finally replied. "That would be too obvious. We'll be staying with the Greengrasses. They're not that prominent within the Death Eater circles. No one will expect to find us there, at least for another month or so. That will give us plenty of time to formulate a different plan. Daphne is a close friend of Pansy's, as I'm sure you'll remember."

She snorted. "Yes, her and all the other snakes that were _so_ pleasant to me during my time at Hogwarts," she drolly remarked. "Her younger sister was rather taken with you, if I recall. Did you sleep with her too?"

"And if I did?" he challenged.

She remained silent for less than half a second. "In that case," she concluded, "you have my gratitude."

Gratitude? _Gratitude?_ Slytherin's soul, for WHAT? She could've said something else—_anything _else. Something angry. Disappointed. Dismayed. Maybe even jealous. Never had he expected gratitude. As if she'd washed her hands of him, and took it as some sort of blessing. Yet again, she'd wandered out of his reach. Even though he'd fucked another woman, why did it still feel as if she'd cast _him _aside, as if she'd left _him _behind, instead of the other way around?

He halted immediately, his breathing strained, everything inside him constricted and compressed. Behind him, the grass stilled. The rhythmic rustling ceased, and he knew that she had come to a stop as well. He clenched his fists to his sides, not trusting himself to speak, or make any sudden moves towards her.

"Thank you, Malfoy," she continued in all seriousness, the silence no match for the power of her words. "Thank you for teaching me the difference between what's real and what was simply a load of Firewhiskey and manic-depressive adrenaline." Taking a deep breath, she ploughed through, never faltering, "Thank you for giving me the chance to save myself for someone who might actually treat me right."

He couldn't bring himself to respond. Nothing he could say would change her mind, or convince her to take him back. He couldn't undo the past, and he would only succeed in condemning and humiliating himself further. He'd already degraded himself enough for her sake. And she didn't even care. Clearly, none of it had ever meant a thing to her. Nothing… Nothing… _He_ meant nothing to her.

He could only walk in one direction now—forward. So he did. And he didn't say a word. He just kept walking. Walking. Endlessly walking towards some far-off place that never seemed to grow any closer.

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><p>Somehow, he and Hermione had made it safely through the forest and now sat in the reception room of the Greengrass estate. Somehow. It didn't matter how. Evidently, the cognitive portion of his mind had decided that it had undergone enough mental strife for the day and completely shut down, allowing sounds and sights to flow straight through him. A relentless stream of information cascaded down the walls of his consciousness, each as blurry and distorted as the next, drowning him in a sea of his own brooding thoughts.<p>

He faintly registered arriving at the manor and suffering a brief lapse in stoicism as Hermione had greeted the house-elf that answered the door with more patience and charity than she'd ever shown him. Apparently, Daphne had left to spend the evening with Pansy, and Lord and Lady Greengrass had gone out on a business trip to France. Therefore, Astoria had taken the liberty of inviting them into her home. He barely noticed her painstakingly swept honey-blonde locks, the eager lustre of her eyes, or her ostentatious dress, politely taking a seat upon the throne-like artefact offered to him and nodding occasionally in feigned interest at her incessant chatter about the newly implemented Renaissance décor.

He'd begun to slip into unconsciousness when a particularly bossy voice jolted him out of his reverie. "MALFOY!"

_"What?" _he snapped, his heart once more leaping out of his grasp.

"Honestly," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Pay attention when she's talking to you."

He shot her a withering glare. Hermione merely raised her eyebrows in response and coolly returned to sipping her tea. "Sorry," he grumbled hastily to Astoria, sitting upright and properly facing their hostess.

"No, really, it's perfectly alright!" Astoria beamed at him. But something in the way that her eyes had flattened and fallen out of synch with her simper suggested otherwise. "How thoughtless of me! You must be exhausted! Would you like me to show you to one of our guest rooms?"

"That'd be brilliant, Astoria. Thank you," he answered sincerely.

"Don't you mean 'summon a house-elf' to show us to our rooms?" Hermione scoffed.

She never could keep her mouth shut for long. Especially when it came to those blasted house-elves.

Astoria smiled at him in reassurance, then turned to frown at Hermione in deep and utter disapproval as she brazenly necked the remainder of her tea, completely unaware of the shadows that had fallen across Astoria's dainty, porcelain face. As if suddenly realising that she'd fallen under Draco's scrutiny, she gigged nervously and covered herself up with a shy smile.

"Pardon my frankness, _Draco,"_ she began, placing great emphasis upon his given name and adamantly refusing to address Hermione directly, "but I couldn't help but wonder why you've brought a stray Mudblood to my doorstep."

He winced almost imperceptibly at the dreaded word—the word that had once come to him as easy as breathing. "Astoria," he warned. Out of the corner of his eye, he gauged Hermione's reaction, tensed and ready to tackle her to the ground at any moment—not to protect her, but to protect Astoria from Hermione's wrath. Hermione had put her cup down with a clink of finality, evenly meeting the other witch's glower of distaste with cold amusement.

"Do you plan on ransoming her to Potter?" Astoria persisted. "Or perhaps using her as bait? Despite her inferior status, I'm sure the Dark Lord would—"

_"No," _Draco cut her off, rising to his full height. He stared her down with stormy eyes, his voice abnormally quiet. An eerie and foreboding stillness descended upon the room. "She's with _me."_

Both women openly gaped at him, hardly daring to believe their ears.

"B-but, Draco," spluttered Astoria, leaping to her feet. "You can't be serious! She's a—I mean—well—she's not like _us! _Don't tell me you actually fancy that—that _thing!"_

At that, Hermione stood up as well, but before she could say a word, he stated firmly, "I don't."

Hermione peered at him strangely. He refused to look her in the eyes.

"Y-you don't?" breathed Astoria.

"No," he confirmed. "I need her as a witness to prove my innocence to the Wizengamot." So far, he hadn't lied. He _did _need her testimony, and he didn't _fancy_ her. He loved her.

"I see," she conceded, relief evident in her tone.

"This may be news to you both," Hermione interrupted coldly, "but I'm a _person. _Not a _thing,_ or some _pet_ that you can just refer to as property." She spared him a single glower of contempt before turning back to Astoria. "I thank you for your hospitality, but I am not 'with' anyone, and I can assure you that I _won't _be overstaying my welcome."

And with that, she quit the room, leaving only emptiness behind.

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><p>Hours later, he lay in bed, tortured by the sobs that seeped through the thin wall that separated them. He'd stupidly tried to confront her afterwards, and once again, it had mutated into another shouting match, ending with her slamming the door in his face and screaming at him to go away. He'd barely stopped himself from snarling words that would have destroyed them both, yet he'd longed so fervently to break down that door and barge straight in, despite everything—despite her rejection. He longed so desperately to hold her and never let her go again, to shred his pride and beg for her forgiveness, but would that have set them both free, or merely himself and his own self-interests?<p>

Strange, how he'd always envied Weasley for his ability to make Hermione cry. To feel something. But now that he'd finally reduced her to tears, he felt no satisfaction whatsoever. Only emptiness. Blast it, he just wanted her to _stop! _Stop crying! Stop tormenting him! _Stop haunting him!_

But she'd made it painfully obvious that she wanted nothing more to do with him. Sure, if she could bring herself to cry over him, she probably still cared, but Hermione always had room in her heart for everyone—the weak, the poor, the sinners. Her beauty, her strength, and her kindness never ceased to infuriate him. And yet, such qualities had enslaved him to her in the first place.

He did not offer his heart so freely. Not even to her. In fact, before his need for her had consumed him to the point where he could no longer deny it to himself, he'd often wondered if he'd ever had one. He had never really given her his heart, but kept it safely locked away. And safe from what, exactly?

Safe from the world. Safe from her. Safe from himself, because he didn't deserve her, and despite his best intentions, he would always find some way to hurt her.

He grimaced with the sheer irony of his predicament. It seemed as if their relationship, if one could even call it that, had finally come full circle. It had begun with her tears, and now it would end with them. The first time, she'd cried because of Weasley, and now, well… It wouldn't even surprise him if he'd jumped to conclusions. Perhaps she cried out of frustration with Astoria. Or the aftershocks of her torture session with his aunt. Or worry for Potter and Weasley. Or anything else this world had managed to fuck up. Not him. Never him. But honestly, he'd brought this upon himself.

Not once had he ever told her the truth. He'd never told her that he loved her, never told her that he thought her the most beautiful witch he had ever known. And now, she would never know.

He raised his mother's wand to his head. A year ago, he'd stood in this exact same position, teetering upon the precipice of life and the abyss of death that awaited him below. Except back then, he'd wanted to end his misery for entirely different reasons. If only he'd succeeded.

This time, he had no one to save him from himself. He probably wouldn't even go through with it, knowing that she slept mere metres away. Somehow, having her this close to him lengthened the distance between them. It seemed as if there would always remain at least one wall that separated them—one wall that would never allow him to reach her. He closed his eyes, smirking wryly at the sheer futility of it all, and allowed himself one last, fleeting dream of soaring over clouds and embracing the impossible, before he surrendered to the night.

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><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


	2. Interlude

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

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><p>INTERLUDE<p>

_~NOVEMBER 1996~_

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><p>"A.K. my life," Draco grumbled, chucking aside the third bottle of Firewhiskey he'd necked that night. He reached for a fourth, swatting Moaning Myrtle out of his face, calling her a filthy Mudblood, along with a few other slurs for good measure, and sending her wailing down the toilet to bleed some other bloke's ears out.<p>

Fucking hell, alone at last. He planned on drowning himself in Firewhiskey tonight. He hardly even noticed the burning sensation anymore. Eventually, it had ebbed away and grown numb, just like everything else. Suddenly, dying a slow, miserable, and lonely death in an abandoned girls' loo, his pale, emaciated corpse—not that anyone could tell the difference at this point—littered amongst a third of the world's supply of smuggled alcohol, sounded like the best-case scenario he could hope for. He should just do himself and everyone else a favour by hurrying the fuck up and _dying _already.

Hell, no one would miss him. No one even bloody _cared. _That, he knew for certain. Even through the bars of his cell in Azkaban, his father would merely frown upon his remains in disapproval, raging on and on about the eternal shame he'd brought upon his ancestors, his constant failure to bring honour to the Malfoy name, the utter grief that he never ceased to inflict upon his parents with his insolence, what a grave disappointment he'd turned out to be, et cetera, et cetera—in other words, nothing new.

He couldn't fix the Vanishing Cabinet. He couldn't beat Potter at Quidditch. He couldn't even beat Granger at school. For fuck's sake, he was almost as worthless as Weasley! What did he have to live for? The Dark Lord would simply order another pawn from his extensive, completely expendable army to finish what Draco started. As for his mother, even if she did care, she would never grace him with anything beyond that cold mask of indifference. She fulfilled her duty as Lady Malfoy to the last, calligraphic letter, siding with her husband in all matters of the estate—_no _exceptions.

Surely, not even anyone at Hogwarts would be sorry to see him go. He doubted that Crabbe and Goyle could even spell the word "death." Nott and Zabini would both ascend, sneering, to the top of the Slytherin social hierarchy by default, and Pansy would probably grieve for him the same way she grieved for lost sales opportunities at Twilfitt and Tatting's. The heroes and the Hufflepoofers would serenade his demise with song, dance, and endless cheer.

He wouldn't even have to kill Dumbledore, or, more accurately, Dumbledore wouldn't have to kill him. Wanking Snape, the Dark Lord's _favourite, _wouldn't have to waste his precious time babysitting him anymore. Pothead, Weaselbee, and the Beaver would save the day, like they always did, and he would've almost done something noble by kicking his own bucket before he did something _really _stupid.

Bottle in hand, he lurched to his feet and took one last, dramatic swig of liquid courage. After spending hours hunched in the same position, he staggered, swaying slightly and sniggering with manic giddiness at his alcohol-induced epiphany. He'd never get to live out any of his wank fantasies about Granger, but that was probably for the best. He was already sick enough as it was. Who knew what sorts of diseases were festering inside of that sweet, virgin pussy of hers, or her—

WHAT IN BUGGERATION? Who the fuck said he even _had _any wank fantasies about her? He didn't have tossing _wank fantasies _about HER! So what if she slapped him in third year? It wasn't as if he'd liked it, or anything as _disgustingly_ masochistic as that! The delirium was merely a side effect, resulting from unwanted skin contact! She'd _infected _him! And so what if he was paying more attention to her at the Yule Ball than Pansy? _Everyone _was staring! He'd never touch a filthy Mudblood like her! Wait, NO! Not _"her!"_ _IT! _He meant _"it!"_

Right. Thoroughly convinced by the soundness of his own impeccable logic, he nodded firmly and set his conscience at ease. With a wobbly flourish of finality, he lifted his wand and pointed it straight at his head. Just two words, and it would all be over.

"_Avada Keda—"_

Oh, fuck.

Why, on tonight, of all nights, did _she,_ of all people, have to come mucking about in _here,_ OF ALL PLACES? Hermione feckin' Granger just _had _to barge into the loo, intruding upon his epic, poetically tragic, and above all, _private _suicide, and she couldn't even do it quietly. No, she had to burst in, bawling hysterically at the top of her putrid lungs and wailing like a bleeding banshee. Brilliant. Just. Fucking. Brilliant. He even failed at dying—thwarted by a Mudblood, of all the lowly creatures that crawled upon this earth. How much more pathetic could he get?

Then, she spotted him. She halted mid-sob, clearly startled by his presence, although, technically, she had no right to be startled, since he was here _first,_ BLAST IT! An awkward silence ensued. For a moment, she just stared at him, standing there with his wand trained at his own forehead, royally mashed and knee-deep in a sea of sauce, and he just stared at _her. _Her bushy hair was even more wild and untamed than usual, and those muddy eyes of hers were red and swollen, bloated with fat tears that wobbled haphazardly down her angry, puffed-up face.

Without warning, she stormed right up to him and snatched the bottle out of his hand, screeching: _"Give me that!" _He gaped, dumbstruck, as Granger—_Hermione Granger_—proceeded to gulp down half a litre of Firewhiskey in one go. Blimey, he couldn't be _that_ drunk! Could he?

"Granger?" he ventured uncertainly.

"_What?" _she snapped.

Taken aback, he found himself at a loss for words. He couldn't help ogling her, just a tad, as she wrapped those rouged lips tightly around the neck of that bottle, where his lips had been only moments before, sucking hard, swallowing its fluids, and not spilling a single drop. Bloody hell… Maybe he really _was_ that drunk.

"Get your own Firewhiskey, Mudblood!" he snarled, seizing the forlornly depleted bottle from her filthy clutches.

"Just tell Mummy to buy you some more, you prat!" she spat, grabbing it back.

"Do you have _any _idea how BLOODY difficult it was to sneak all this past that blighted Squib? No, of course you don't! There aren't any books written about it in the library!" he taunted, wrenching the bottle out of her grasp and taking a nice, long swill out of it to rub it in her face. He'd completely forgotten about the fact that it was contaminated, but he was still alive, wasn't he? Fuck it! At this point, death by Mudblood pathogens was still better than living.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Malfoy," she leered, a positively _evil _glint marring those roiled eyes. A trick of the light, surely. Or the alcohol. Yes, it was definitely the alcohol. It _had_ to be the alcohol. "I _am _a prefect, and if I'm not mistaken, I've just discovered you in the possession of enough illegal substances to join Daddy in the nick."

"HA!" he barked. "I'm a motherfucking prefect too, Granger!"

"Indeed," she snorted, the corners of her lips twitching slightly with some private joke that he couldn't care less about. "All the more reason to turn you in."

"Tell you what, Granger," he mused, smirking down at her. "I dare you to report me. I fucking _dare _you."

"An unwise move to use against a Gryffindor, don't you think?" she coolly responded, raising her eyebrows.

"Well, you're not such a good little Gryffindor now, are you, Granger?" he sneered. "I'm sure your beloved professors would love to hear all about how their favourite student, in the midst of an emotional breakdown, assaulted me for alcohol and attempted to blackmail me in a blatant abuse of her prefect status."

She immediately burst into derisive laughter. "Honestly, Malfoy, who would take _your_ word over _mine?"_

Fuck. She had a point there.

Taking advantage of his stupefaction, she lunged for the bottle and fought to pry it out of his hold. A heated tug-of-war commenced, both of them completely disregarding the shroom-like colonies of unopened liquor that surrounded them.

"Hand it over, Malfoy, or I'll put your arse in detention!"

"You can't put me in detention, you stupid Mudblood! I should be the one giving _you _detention!"

"Don't worry, Malfoy, unlike _you,_ I'm not completely heartless! I'll be sure to put all of your lackeys in detention with you!"

"My _lackeys? _Is that the best that you can come up with? I haven't even _started_ on those bender boy toys of yours—"

"You just wait until I give Tweedledim and Tweedledumb lines—"

"What the fuck is a Tweedle—NO! You know what? Fuck YOU, Mudblood! Go spew your shite at some twat who actually cares! I don't fucking speak Muggle—"

"I can just picture it already! Reading! Writing! And _thinking!_ At the same time! Have the noble inbreeds of Slytherin finally met their match? Salazar save you all—"

"Yeah? Well, I think I'll have Weasley muck out the slug pit, since he always seems to be on such friendly terms with them—"

"Yes, do that! And have him scrub the floor of the dungeons while he's at it!"

"HA! Even better, with that foul Squib breathing down his scrawny neck—"

"And without magic!"

"Honestly, you call yourself the brightest witch of our age? That was a given! I'll have him wipe the dirt off the ground with soiled rags, like the ones mouldering on the backs of his entire piss-poor family—"

"Honestly, you call yourself a Slytherin? Have him use a toothbrush! His _own _toothbrush—"

"Blimey, Granger… That's—that's—_diabolical!"_

"NO, Malfoy! That is JUSTICE! He'd deserve every sodding _second _of it!"

"I'm not going to disagree with you, Granger, but… Are you going to give me your signature on that? Because I'm not fucking about—I will seriously write him up this instant, if it's all the same to you—"

"YOU CAN DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT! I don't _bloody _care anymore! He can figure out how to do things _himself_ for a change! Do you think that blonde, purebred BIMBO is going to do his homework for him? _The night before it's due? _Or remind him to eat his vegetables, so that he doesn't perish from vitamin deficiency?"

"Er, Granger?"

"Or renew his library books for him? Or put up with all of his jealous rants about Harry? Or his constant whinging? Or his ridiculous boasts?"

"Really, Granger, too much information—"

"Or defend him from pricks like YOU? Or sit around, _waiting_ for him, for years, and years, and YEARS, because he doesn't have the spine to make the first move?"

"Look, Granger, I can't fucking believe that I'm saying this, but maybe you should just calm dow—"

"I—_HATE_—RONALD—_FLUFFING_—WEASLEY!"

They both froze on the spot, allowing her incensed proclamation to bounce off the tiles and back into their disbelieving ears. Neither one of them had yet to relinquish their claim upon the bottle, both flushed and panting with the effort of their struggles.

"I would do anything for him," she whispered suddenly, her voice cracking beneath the strain of her despair. _"Anything. _Why isn't that good enough?" Her shoulders started to tremble. Ashamed, she ducked her head down as she succumbed to great, wracking sobs that shuddered and sloshed through the glass medium that connected them, however briefly, to each other.

He held on, simply to give himself something to do—as if by holding the bottle steady, he could somehow halt the floodgates. Uncomfortably, he averted his gaze. Should he tell her to piss off? Spout off some profound titbit of alcohol-induced wisdom? _Fucking_ hell. Didn't he have enough problems already, without some barking Mud-bitch crying all over his Firewhiskey and polluting it with her odious secretions? Merlin's _bleeding _beard, was EVERYONE out to get him?

"I fucking hate people," he muttered.

She hiccupped in surprise, peering up at him with watery, mud-stained eyes.

"Manipulative, selfish bastards, the lot of them," he spat bitterly. "Nothing's _ever _good enough in this fucked-up shithole they call a planet."

"You would know," she sniffed in derision.

"Yes, I would," he answered darkly.

She continued to blink at him, unsure what to make of his cryptic response.

He sighed in exasperation. Fucking hell, he just wanted this day to be _over _already. "Listen, Granger, you're smart—for a Mudblood. So take my advice, and just give it up already. There's _no point _in trying to be so bloody perfect all the time. People couldn't fucking care less."

She bristled at his suggestion. "Don't speak as if you know me," she snapped defensively. "From the moment I met you, all you've ever done is judge me, belittle me, and remind me every single, _blasted _day that I'm worth nothing more than the dirt on your shoes! You don't know the _first thing_ about me! You're nothing but a spoiled, arrogant bully with daddy issues, and I feel _sorry_ for you!"

The numbness that had previously settled over him evaporated in an instant, consumed by a boiling wrath that thundered through him and ignited the fraying, Firewhiskey-soused fuse that had twisted up the last vestiges of his sanity.

"You don't know what the _fuck_ you're talking about," he warned, his voice dangerously quiet. "You don't know _anything _about me."

"I know enough," she hissed back.

"You think _I'm _the one who's self-righteous?" he bellowed. "Why don't you take a good look in the mirror, you gobshitting bitch? You have the nerve to come crying in here, just because that fucking ginger peasant chose some pureblood over you, and you honestly think that your problems are bigger than mine? You don't need me to tell you that you're inferior! You already _know _that you're inferior! That's why you're so torn up, isn't it? You're such a worthless Mudblood, you have no _idea _what I have to go through just to fucking STAY ALIVE and get my parents to even _look _at me!"

"_YOU'RE A COWARD!" _she retorted. "You don't have the guts to stand up to _anyone,_ not unless you've got your thick-headed thugs behind you to hold your hand! You're so pathetic, the way you degrade others just to bolster your own fragile ego! You're _powerless! _Your parents brainwash you with their lies, and you believe every single of them, you sick, son of a—"

"SHUT UP! _SHUT UP!"_

"WHY DON'T YOU MAKE ME?"

He lunged forward and grabbed her, slamming her up against the wall and crushing her lips with his. The forgotten bottle smashed to the ground and shattered, splashing them both with scorching, sizzling flecks of the intoxicating drink. He practically sucked her face off, opening wide, engulfing her entire mouth, and slavering his claim upon it.

Growling gutturally, he drew upon the molten slickness of his tongue to probe for the slightest weakness in her defences. Once he found it, he shoved himself in without mercy, groaning at the taste of Firewhiskey that still lingered upon her tongue. It burned through him with a searing intensity that incinerated all of the voices in his head that were screaming at him to stop—the voices of his mother, his father, his ancestors, and the puritanical society that had dictated his entire life. This time, he threw himself into the fire, and to hell with the consequences.

At first, she remained unresponsive as he feasted upon her and took his own pleasure. She made a few feeble attempts to shove him off, but her reflexes were slowed and her strength severely diminished by the sudden drinking binge, their crackpot tug-of-war, and the blazing row that had ensued.

Then, a hot tear splattered upon his cheek and he blinked in confusion, pausing momentarily in his assault. Deep and utter sorrow continued to bleed in winding rivulets down her face. Guilt immediately overrode his hormone-drenched stupor. Shite, shite, shite… Had he gone too far? Was this technically considered rape? Could he be expelled for that? Or _worse,_ maybe she thought he was really that bad at kissing? IMPOSSIBLE! That would be _preposterous!_

"Malfoy," she whispered shakily.

"_What?" _he growled, stewing bitterly in woes that were far beyond the abilities of this cruel, cock-teasing bint to even comprehend. Did they seriously have to talk _now? _For fuck's sake, his dick was literally crying in frustration! He needed to have at her _now, _before he sobered up and actually realised what in the_ blazes_ he was doing!

"Make me forget," she pleaded, squeezing her eyes shut, even as the tears continued to seep through. She clung to his robes, yanked him in closer, and stood up on her tiptoes to offer him a timid, tremulous kiss that burned with desperation.

She was using him. Just using him. And he was using her. They both needed to forget. Just for one night, neither of them wanted to remember who they were, who their parents were, what was expected of them, and what they were supposed to be living for. All that mattered was this moment—right here, right now, with each other.

The world could go fuck itself.

In a rare gesture of tenderness, he gently wiped her tears. He didn't know why, but it bothered him to see them on her face. They were for Weasley. _He _was the one kissing her now, and she was still crying over that freckle-faced mong. Only then did he realise that not once had he ever seen Hermione Granger cry because of him, despite everything he'd ever said or done to her. Not once had she cried for him. Yet with Weasley, her tears streamed so freely. It made him feel… oddly hollow.

Then, her lips embraced his once more. They were soft, yet moist with his flavour. Abruptly, a dark hunger overcame him, and he was consumed with a sudden, inexplicable urge to dominate her.

Tomorrow, she would go running back to Weasley, him back to the Room of Requirement, and they would've both come back to their senses. Life would go on, and everything would be as it should be. But at this very moment, in this very place, she was _his, _and his alone.

He sank his teeth into her bottom lip, just hard enough to make her gasp aloud. Eagerly, he plunged his tongue into her wetness, ruthlessly exploiting the opening that he'd created. She whimpered, barely keeping pace with his ferocity. Needing more, he fisted his hands in her lush curls and roughly pulled her head back into an angle that allowed for deeper penetration.

"Open wider," he commanded, the words gruff and husky with arousal. _"Give me your tongue." _She complied, screaming into his mouth as he lashed her tongue with his, sliding up and over the slick flesh with long, thick strokes that told her exactly how he was going to ride her later.

It didn't take long before she became just as violent as him. They groped and grasped at one another, lost in a haze of pent-up desire. Their robes slid to the floor, fluttering amongst the sounds of ragged breathing, rustling uniforms, smothered moans, and suckling, wet smacks echoing across the tiles.

She recklessly ran her hands through his hair and raked her nails down his back, eliciting bestial growls to rumble from the back of his throat. He thrust his tongue into her with the territorial carnality of a male claiming his female, and she hungrily sucked upon it, wringing out every last drop and relentlessly demanding more. Turned on by the sight of her gorging upon his essence, he hiked her skirt up and possessively rubbed his erection down the front of her exposed knickers. She purred and pounced, twisting her legs around him.

He groaned in approval, brazenly grabbing her arse and tilting her up a tad higher. Without further ceremony, he repeatedly drove his covered cock into her puckered, eagerly awaiting slit, their mating hampered by the dampened thatch of cotton that stretched between her thighs. As he grinded her against the wall, he devoured her impassioned screams, wanting nothing more than to rip off her uniform with his teeth and fuck her like a rabid beast.

After tonight, there was no going back. Undoubtedly, there would be ramifications for his recklessness, but he realised that he _wanted _her to infect him. The rampant need to drown in her poison and fill her with his both frightened and thrilled him. The forbidden nature of his actions was all at once exhilarating and empowering. For once, he was making a personal choice—a choice that didn't depend upon his parents' approval. After all, if he was going to die sometime this year anyway, he'd rather perish in the throes of passion with this wickedly decadent Muggle-born than suffer a slow, painful death at the hands of the Dark Lord.

He was falling hard, and he was falling fast. Into what, he wasn't sure. But he couldn't bring himself to stop. For both of their sakes, he needed to make things clear.

"This doesn't mean anything," he mumbled in the brief fractions of a second that their lips parted, more to himself than to her. It didn't sound very convincing. But it was probably just the alcohol.

"Oh, _do _shut up," she groaned, siphoning his tongue back into that sassy, sultry little mouth of hers. "For once in your wretched life, can you _not _be a stupid, foul-mouthed git and just snog me senseless already?"

"_Bloody hell,_ who knew your mouth was so—so fucking—oh, _yeah," _he moaned, sliding his tongue as far down her throat as he could reach. He nipped and fucked her mouth like he owned it, mimicking the frenzied, sweaty surging of his hips. She met him thrust for thrust, clamping down on his tongue with urgency. His lips were incredibly bruised, and he might have tasted blood at some point, but _fuck him sideways, _he couldn't care less.

"You eating your words yet?" she rasped between passes.

"Why don't you put that filthy little Mudblood mouth of yours to good use and eat them for me?" he growled back.

"I hate you," she breathed passionately.

"I hate you too," he whispered, his cock twitching with every pert remark that passed through those succulent lips of hers.

Merlin, all of this bantering, humping, and snogging was going to make him come. He needed to be inside of her _now._

As he slyly ran his hands up the pair of dainty legs tangled around his hips and boldly kneading his backside in a silent plea for more, he paused at her knickers, fingering the fabric and debating whether or not to rip them straight off and take her against the wall, throw her down on the floor and yank them off, or pull them off to the side and take her against the wall anyway. Decisions, decisions… Fuck, his brain was beginning to overheat—

"OW!" he yelled as she bit his tongue, whacked his hand away, and forcibly attempted to shove him off. "What the FUCK?"

"That is _quite _enough, Malfoy," she declared. "I may be drunk, but I _know_ I'm not _that _drunk. I am not having sex with you, and that is FINAL!"

_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUUCK IS THIS SHITE? SHE CAN'T DO THIS TO HIM! HE WAS GOING TO FUCKING DIIIIIEEEEEE!_

"Honestly, who do you take me for?" she rabbited on in that infuriatingly bitchy, know-it-all tone of hers, which only succeeded in accelerating the blood flow from his head to his dick. As usual, she was completely oblivious to his agony and the angry, weeping hard-on that was straining desperately towards her heat and threatening to tear through his trousers at any moment. "If you want a quick shag, you can just slither back into that incompetent, snotty-nosed House of yours and bed one of your precious, purebred harlots!"

He'd never actually screwed a girl before. But she didn't need to know that.

"And what are _you_ going to do? Scarper back to your tower and use Potter as a substitute while you're waiting for Weaselbee to fall madly in love with you? _Pathetic,"_ he sneered. Hell, maybe if he riled her up enough, she'd shut the fuck up and they could get back to snogging already.

"Look, Malfoy, I might not be the sexiest girl in the world—"

His jaw dropped.

"—but even _I'm _not worth being taken advantage of by some horny, sadistic snake whose _only_ motivation for shagging me is the woeful misconception that I'm the closest available prey, not to mention the fact that—"

As she prattled on and on in that prissy voice of hers, she'd actually crossed her arms, unwittingly pushing her tits up—which he'd yet to score a proper gander at, by the way—and Draco was about to lose consciousness from a deathly combination of alcohol and overstimulation. He still had her pinned against the wall, and she'd kept her legs wrapped around his waist, either ignorant or completely uncaring of this inconvenient little detail. He was beginning to regret his earlier thoughts on dying. Surely not even anything the Dark Lord could do to him would be _nearly_ as painful as this.

"—honestly, if you were sober, and had the foggiest idea what you were doing, there's no way you'd ever want to have sex with me—"

He begged to differ. Actually, he was on the verge of begging in general.

"—imagine if I, Hermione Granger, walked straight up to you in the Great Hall, right as you're tucking into breakfast, no less, and said, 'Good morning, Malfoy! Fancy a little romp with the Mudblood?' You, being the predictable, bigoted pillock that you are, would almost certainly respond—"

"Yes," he blurted out loud.

Her eyes widened in shock. Then, they narrowed in suspicion. "You would?"

He nodded feverishly, and she gasped, reflexively slapping him across the face as he swerved nearer.

"How about now, arsehole?" she dared.

"Oh, _yeah," _he moaned, panting like an animal and slathering his tongue over every centimetre of skin he could reach. She squeaked, clearly scandalised by his reaction.

He couldn't help it. _She_ was the one who came crying to _him! _It was her own bloody fault that she was in this predicament. In fact, _everything _was her fault! Wasn't she paying attention at _all _during third year? Didn't she ever wonder why he'd never tried to retaliate against her for _that _specific incident? She'd inflicted actual, physical trauma upon his person! _Physical trauma!_ NO ONE touched him like that—_NO ONE!_ Not unless he _wanted _them to! He hadn't even gone whinging to his father about it, and when he was thirteen, he'd informed his father about _every _transgression committed against his will! He hadn't even tried to hex her! Or insult her for using Muggle means against a _real _wizard!

Did she honestly think that he'd reflected upon his misdeeds, or discovered the light of forgiveness, or something as FUCKING stupid as that? For someone so brilliant, she could be awfully dim. Merlin's _rod,_ he was so randy for her, he could barely string two words together! He was Draco _fucking _Malfoy, and she, a mere Mudblood, had rendered him incapable of coherent speech! _Blasphemy, _it was! Complete and utter _blasphemy!_

"You're sick!" she mewled, wriggling against his slobbering erection. She fought him, insulted him, cried out in whimpering yelps when he clipped her clit _just right_, and blushed at the shamefulness of her reaction. His cock shuddered and swelled in triumph, mere strokes away from exploding in his pants.

_Fuck! Oh, yeah! Oh, fuck, YEAH! _He was _so _close, he wasn't even going to bother unzipping. He knew for _dead cert_ that he'd be raring to go for round two, once he threw her down, tore her uniform into shreds, bound her hands with his tie, ravished her cherry, and fingered her deeper than she could ever reach on her own. He was going to fuck her senseless on the bathroom floor, right on top of his robes, so that her pussy leaked her pleasure all over it when she came for him—proof of his conquest. Until dawn, the only thing she'd be screaming would be his name.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

She fainted.

She actually fainted.

_FUCKETY BOLLOCKS! BASTARD! WANK! SHIT! FUCK! FUCK! DOUBLE FUCK! BLAST! CUNT! BUGGERING, TWATTING, BLOODY-ARSED HELL! _

WHO THE FUCK _FAINTS _AFTER TWO TICKS ON THE SAUCE AND A LITTLE DRY-HUMPING? A SWOTTY, TOFFEE-NOSED GRYFFINDOR, THAT'S WHO!

_#^&*^&^$%%&&%^%^&*%#&**^%*^***#%%$&$&#&!_

He sank to the floor in defeat, his only hope for salvation slumped in his arms. She remained limp and unresponsive as he fidgeted in torment, his vision blurring and ravaged by little black spots that were eating holes in his eyes. He could hardly breathe. He could barely even move. There was scarcely any blood left in his brain.

He'd finally reached his limit. He was going to pass out. Because men did not faint. And it was very painful to be a man.

"Salazar help me, I _am_ sick," he moaned in dismay, slamming his eyes shut and succumbing to his demise. He wanted to stick his dick in a Mudblood, for crying out loud! How much more perverse could it get?

Praise Salazar he wasn't in love with her, or anything as stupid and hopelessly self-destructive as that.

* * *

><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


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